


The Littlest Avenger

by soybeez



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-26
Updated: 2015-02-26
Packaged: 2018-03-15 06:56:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3437777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soybeez/pseuds/soybeez
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fifteen years after the Battle of New York Sam and Steve babysit Phillipa Romanov-Barnes while her parents are on assignment. The Avengers assemble at Steve's birthday party.</p><p>*NOTE: Not all tagged ships are in the opening chapter, but they will be in later installments, I'm not lying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Littlest Avenger

The door closed behind him with a heavy thunk that mirrored the thud of his boots on the hardwood floor. It had been a long day at work and Steve wanted nothing more than to veg out on the couch with a cold beer watching old sitcoms. With a rustling slither his leather coat slid free from the hook he had just slung it on and puddled onto the floor. Steve stared at it for a second, long fingers wrapping around the cold neck of some local craft beer he didn’t recognize, then turned away. He had hung it up; it wasn’t his fault the jacket didn’t want to stay there.  
“Steve, that you?” The voice came from down the hall, presumably the living room.  
“Yup.” He grabbed a second beer then pushed the fridge door closed with his booted foot.  
“How was work?”  
He was about to reply “a heinous bitch of a day that isn’t worth repeating” when a force bowled into him, scrawny arms wrapping around his legs and making him stagger.  
“Uncle Steve!” a shrill voice squealed from the vicinity of his shins. A little girl with dark hair stared up at him, grinning.  
Steve looked down at her, mock confusion on his face. “Who are you?” he asked her, squinting. “Do I know you?”  
The little girl laughed, squeezing harder. “It’s me, Uncle Steve,” she gushed. “Phillipa.”  
“Oh, Phillipa. I remember you now.” In a flash the beers had been deposited on the floor and Steve had grabbed the little girl, spinning her above his head. She squealed in excitement, arms held out like a plane. “How’s my little princess?” he asked her, setting her back down on the floor. Collecting the beers in one had he used the other to hold hers, walking with her down the hall into the living room.  
“Good,” she told him, skipping along. “But I’m not a princess.”  
“You’re not?”  
“Nope.” She shook her head, pigtails slapping against her cheeks. “I’m an astrophysicist.” The physicist part came out a little garbled, a mess of squints and slurred S’s, but Steve knew what she meant.  
“Good,” he told her, setting the drinks on the coffee table. “Because I’ve had some questions about the moon recently.”  
“I don’t do the moon,” she said imperiously. Clearly, she hadn’t given up being a princess entirely.  
“You don’t do the moon?”  
“Nope. I do Einstein Rainbow bridges; like Auntie Jane.”  
Steve smiled. She may have smushed the names together, but his six-year-old goddaughter probably knew more factual information about Einstein Rosen bridges than most tenured astrophysicists. And it was a rainbow, or had been. He wasn’t really sure about the state of the bifrost at the moment.  
Phillipa frowned, chewing on her lower lip. It was a bad habit she had inherited from her father. “Can I be a princess and an astrophysicist?” she asked.  
“Of course, what do you think your Auntie Jane is?” Sam asked from the couch.  
“Auntie Jane is a queen,” Phillipa corrected. “Uncle Thor is King of Assguard.”  
Steve’s hand flew to his mouth, smothering a laugh. “Your child probably is the only person in the, well universe, who calls Thor uncle.”  
Natasha shrugged. “What can I say, she’s special.” She smiled at her daughter, a soft curve to her mouth that was reserved for her family.  
“Our special little snowflake,” Bucky growled mischievously, grabbing her up and tickling her sides. “Who is going to be on her best behavior with her uncles while Mom and Dad are out of town?” he asked her.  
“Yes,” she sighed overdramatically. Natasha shot Bucky a look that said “this is your daughter”. The return grin clearly meant “I know”.  
“Okay love bug,” he told her, giving her another squeeze. “Take you stuff to your room.”  
She gave him a calculating look. “Are you going to tell Uncle Steve and Uncle Sam a bunch of stuff I’m not allowed to know?”  
“Yes,” Natasha told her. Phillipa squinted at her mother, matching green eyes mirroring each other. Apparently she decided this wasn’t a battle she needed to pick and trudged up the stairs with a chorus of dramatic sighs and eye rolls. Natasha certainly didn’t tell Phillipa everything, but she rarely lied to her.  
“We’ve got a job in the Ukraine,” Bucky said once his daughter was out of earshot. “It’s fairly simple and relatively low risk but it will take a while to get the drop sight and infiltrate the group; we’ll probably be gone about two weeks, maybe three.”  
It had been over fifteen years since the Battle of New York and the subsequent fall of S.H.I.E.L.D. and the organization was back on its feet after rooting out HYDRA. Bucky looked a lot different than he had the first time Steve had seen him. Well, the first time Steve had seen the Winter Soldier. His dark hair, once long and lank was cut not quite military close, and the lack of evil Nazi brainwashing had lessened the deep bags under his eyes and the hollows in his cheeks. The arm was still the same, a silver gleam under the soft green cotton of his T-shirt. These days, though, the Hydra insignia had been replaced with refrigerator magnets and pony stickers, not all of them put there by the six year old. The Winter Soldier project, disturbingly close to the Super Soldier Serum, had kept Bucky looking same age he had when he ‘died’. There was something so right about him, young and healthy and looking twenty-seven, sitting on best friend’s couch playing the little girl that looked so much like him.  
“Here’s our call number, if you need us, and the coordinating agents if you really need us.” Natasha slid a manila envelope across the table. It was blank except for the small black stylized eagle in the far left corner. “And Fury knows where we are if it’s an emergency emergency. Phillipa’s doing an art camp at the school and you’re all on the pickup list.”  
It was all a bit pointless, Steve and Sam knew what to do if there was an emergency, they had watched Phillipa enough, but the routine made her feel better. Steve may have been her daughter’s godfather, Bucky’s oldest friends, and one of her best, but leaving Phillipa always opened up a pit in her gut she hadn’t had before the little girl. This had been the reason she had remained unconnected for so long; connections made it harder to get up and go when needed. Romanov had been the Black Widow for so long she barely remembered her life before hand. It had been her entire universe, everything she had ever known, and she loved it. There was a time you would have had to kill her before she gave up the title. Now, if it came between the Black Widow and Phillipa, she would take her little girl and be off grid before they had even noticed the Black Widow was missing. Knowing that she was safe with Steve and Sam was the only way Natasha could leave the city.  
Hidden behind their knees Bucky squeezed her hand. He knew how hard it was for her to leave. They had been together three years when Natasha had walked into the room carrying a pink stick with a checkmark. They had talked about it for days, evaluating it from every angle. At the end of the day, Bucky wanted the baby, but only if Nat did. “I want to do this with you,” he had told her. “But only if you want to. It’s your life that would be changing a hell of a lot more than mine.”  
“I don’t want to give up everything,” she told him, pacing the floor of the small flat. “I can’t be a soccer mom who drives a minivan and has an easy to manage bob” She ruffled her long red hair in emphasis. Bucky stared at her.  
“Why the hell would you do that?”  
“Because that’s what regular people do when they have kids,” she said slowly.  
“Last time I checked we weren’t regular people.” He waved his metal arm. “Last time I checked you were the Black Widow and I was the Winter Soldier, but that doesn’t mean we’re not Nat and Bucky sometimes. If you wanted to do this, if,” he added, “you wouldn’t have to give everything up. Not forever. We would just stay local for a while. And then somebody could keep the baby when we were gone.”  
“Last time I checked S.H.I.E.L.D. didn’t have a daycare,” she said hotly.  
“Steve will watch it.”  
Natasha groaned, rubbing her hands over her eyes. “Yes, Captain America will be our babysitter. That will work out so well.”  
“You know Steve wants to get out of field work; he and Sam have talked about retiring for months. Plus, he loves kids.” She frowned at him, unsure. “It’s up to you Nat, completely. But we do have options.” He kissed her. “But either way, I love you.  
“I’m coming down now.” Little feet clomped down the stairs as hard as they possibly could. It wouldn’t have been that impressive if she hadn’t been wearing the outrageously miniature combat boots Pepper had bought her.  
“I love you,” Natasha told her, pulling her into a tight bear hug. “So much. We’ll miss you.” She kissed her on the top of the head and passed her to Bucky, walking into the hall. Steve followed her as Bucky hugged Phillipa, telling her to have fun on her ‘vacation’.  
“She’ll be fine, Natasha.”  
“I know.” She was looking at a picture of Sam and Steve at the National Mall. “Thanks grandpa.” She punched him lightly on the shoulder. Bucky joined them in the hall, clasping Steve on the shoulder.  
“Thanks again, Steve. And I’m sorry about missing your birthday.”  
“You’ll just owe me a beer. Be safe, Buck.” Grinning, Bucky grabbed Natasha’s hand and led her out. Steve walked back into the living room, where Sam was sipping a beer and watching Phillipa flip TV channels.  
“Can I have some ice cream?”  
Sam flicked a pigtail, kissing her on the top of the head. “Chocolate or vanilla?”  
“Both?” she asked, all doe-eyed innocence.  
Sam laughed and walked to the kitchen, Steve following him. “How was your day?” Steve asked, wrapping his arms around Sam’s waist.  
“Better than yours if the beers are any indication. You usually change before you break out the alcohol.” Sam had a point. The horrible work day combined with the super spies had made Steve forget he was still in his uniform.  
Steve grumbled, nuzzling his face into Sam’s shoulder. “Can I just quit?”  
“Nope,” Sam said, scooping three generous portions of ice cream. “If you quit how will I stay a trophy husband? I need someone who can support me and the lifestyle to which I have become accustomed.”  
“Why can’t I be the trophy husband?” Steve whined, words muffled by Sam’s shirt.  
“Because you’re the arm candy.”  
“Aren’t they usually the same person?”  
“Usually, but there’s just so much ‘hot damn’ in this relationship we had to spread it around. And since you’re the one with the proportions of a Dorito you get to be arm candy.”  
“You know I still haven’t forgiven you for the whole Dorito thing, right?”  
“Now you know it was Tony who put you on the bag, not me.”  
“Yeah,” Steve admitted sullenly, “but you’re the one who brought it to his attention and made him buy the company.”  
The chuckle radiated through Sam’s chest and rumbled against Steve’s cheek. “Yeah, that was me. And I still find it hilarious.” Sam held out a bowl of ice cream, this one mostly chocolate, but Steve shook his head.  
“I’m going to change first, be right back.” He gave Sam a kiss and jogged up the stairs.  
Their bedroom was the last one on the hall, the door to the right standing slightly ajar. Steve pushed it opened and stepped into the room, floor to ceiling windows letting in the afternoon light that lit up the pale blue walls. With practiced ease he started undoing the buckles and laces of S.H.E.I.L.D issue vest with one hand, loosing his bootlaces with the other. The thick black button-up shirt he wore under the vest was tossed onto the floor, followed by the heavy boots and thick black-denim pants. He contemplated folding the clothes, or at least tossing them in the laundry basket, but decided against it. It was somehow more cathartic to step over the crumpled pile of all black on his way to the closet. One of Sam’s requirements when house shopping was separate closets; he claimed Steve had too many shoes and would hog all of the space. It was for the best, because where Sam’s closet was organized by type of clothing, color, and season Steve’s was just a mass of clothes slung over hangers and shoved into the nearest space available. On a good day the pants were separated from the shirts. Toeing a pile on the floor he fished out a mostly clean pair of jeans, worn soft at the knees and thighs, and snatched a shirt from a shelf, pulling it on over his head.  
Phillipa looked at him skeptically as he walked into the living room in bare feet. Her mouth was smudged with ice cream and he was pretty sure there was chocolate syrup in one of her pigtails. “Uncle Steve, why is there a picture of you on your shirt?”  
Sam laughed, snorting slightly. Steve looked down at him shirt. “Shit,” he muttered. “Shoot,” he corrected quickly, looking up at Phillipa. “If anyone asks I said shoot.” Phillipa giggled. “It’s a shirt your mom gave me. She thought it was funny.”  
“But why would you give Hitler a sock? And who is Hitler?”  
The shirt was a vintage style T they had started making after the battle of New York. It was grey stone washed with a chipping vinyl image of him, full uniform, comic-book-style punching Hitler in the jaw with “Let’s Sock Hitler” in blue block letters. There was even a POW bubble by his fist. It usually stayed buried in a pile of painting shirts, but somehow it had its way to the surface.  
“It means to hit someone. It’s something we used to say when I was your age.”  
“Oh.” Phillipa hadn’t quite grasped the concept of Steve frozen in ice and being over one-hundred-years old, especially since he looked younger than Sam by a good ten years. “But you shouldn’t hit people.”  
“No, you’re right.” It was pretty hypocritical for a bunch of spies and S.H.I.E.L.D agents to say ‘no hitting’, but she was six. “But you know how sometimes Mom and Dad have to go get rid of bad people?” She nodded. “Hitler was one of those bad people.”  
“Oh, okay.” She nodded again, going back to her ice cream.  
Steve plopped down next to Sam on the couch, grabbing his bowl. Shoulders brushing together Steve cuddled into his husband, his head resting against Sam’s. Since Steve was a good head taller, though, it was more like he was resting his head on Sam’s.  
“Want me to take Phillipa to camp tomorrow?” Sam asked, scraping his bowl clean. He eyed Steve’s, still half full, but a sticky spoon to the wrist stopped him.  
“Nah, I’ll take her. You don’t have work tomorrow.”  
“Yeah, but I’ll do it for you.”  
“I know, and I love you for it.” He kissed him. “But not enough to give you my ice cream.” Sam grumbled, sitting back into the cushions. Steve let out a dramatic sigh. “I’ll take the dad mobile tomorrow.” Normally he rode his motorcycle everywhere, and Sam had his Corvette, but they kept and old Buick for when they needed more than two seats. You couldn’t exactly strap a car seat to a Harley, and a Stingray wasn’t super child friendly either. That left the ‘dad mobile’, which Steve hated with a passion. “It’s made for old people,” he complained. “It has fake wood paneling. And a maroon interior. Maroon.”  
“I think it fits you,” Sam joked, stealing a bite of ice cream before Steve could retaliate. “You’re about one hundred and ten years old; it’s made for your age group.” Steve glared. “It’s not my fault you’re a cradle robber. Trophy husband, remember?”  
“I’m younger than you,” Steve muttered grumpily. He threw an arm around Sam’s shoulder, leaning against him to watch the TV. “Two years.”  
“A year and three months, babe. And I’m not entirely sure that you still count as younger than me.”  
“I’m rounding up,” Steve said off handedly.  
“That’s not how rounding up works,” Sam laughed. “But I’ll give it to you; since your old and all.” He kissed Steve, who smiled despite himself. “I was going to make salmon for dinner, but with little miss here I was thinking pizza instead? “  
“Tonight is definitely a pizza night,” Steve agreed. “Is it a bad example to fake sick and skip work tomorrow? Buck skipped school all the time as kids, so he couldn’t really say anything, but Nat doesn’t strike me as a the kind who plays a lot of hooky.”  
“Tomorrow will be better,” Sam assured him, adding a kiss on the end. “It’ll be Friday. And everyone’s coming over tomorrow for the barbeque.”  
Phillipa perked up, head turning towards her honorary uncles. “We’re having a barbeque tomorrow.”  
“Yup.”  
“Who’s coming?” She was trying to suppress her excitement, but the bottom lip pulled between her teeth in anticipation gave her away.  
“Uncle Tony, Uncle Bruce, and Uncle Clint.” Sam ticked them off on slender fingers. “Auntie Pepper and Auntie Maria. Maybe even Auntie Jane and Uncle Thor.” A surprisingly shrill squeal came from the little body on the floor.  
“Auntie Jane and Uncle Thor are coming?”  
“Maybe,” Sam cautioned. “They aren’t sure yet.”  
It was too late, though. At the mention of her Asguardian family she had gone off the deep end of excitement. Springing up on chubby child legs she danced around the room, singing. Sam groaned.  
“You better hope they can make it,” Steve laughed, watching her spin in nauseatingly tight circles. “You know how she gets with those two.”  
“I forgot.” There was a pained look on Sam’s face. “She’s going to be like this all night.”  
“Until she passes out from exhaustion,” Steve agreed. “Do you really think they’ll be here?”  
“I’m about ninety percent sure. Jane said they would make it, but something could always come up.”  
“Why are they coming down again?”  
Sam stared slack-jawed at his husband. “For the party tomorrow. You know, the one for your birthday.”  
Blue eyes rolled into the back of Steve’s head. “There has to be another reason they’re visiting from another realm.”  
“It’s America’s birthday too. Maybe they’re coming for both.” The spinning and chattering had stopped just long enough for Phillipa to add her two cents, then started back up.  
“I didn’t want a big party.” A pout had seeped into Steve’s voice, but he couldn’t help it.  
“It isn’t a big party. Just some work friends and a cake, I promise.” Throwing up his hands, Sam caved under Steve’s dark look. “Fine, and some fireworks. But it’s the Fourth of July. You can’t not have fireworks on the Fourth of July.”  
“And sparklers!” Phillipa demanded.  
“Of course sparklers!”  
Groaning, Steve tried to sink into the couch cushions. When it came to those two the concept of “small and simple” flew out the window. He would just be lucky if he avoided the pony rides and five piece folk band this year.


End file.
